The kind of guy you save
by Lizardbeth J
Summary: Sam knows helping Bucky Barnes is going to be dangerous, maybe even foolish. He's going to do it anyway.
1. Chapter 1

**NOTE**: Sam Wilson pov, post-Winter Soldier, Bucky-recovery fic. with Steve. a touch of Steve/Bucky and Natasha-Clint.

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Sam didn't mean to eavesdrop as he entered the lunch room looking for coffee, while Colleen and Sasha poked through the leftovers of someone's birthday pastries.

"There are so many," Colleen sighed. "And now this mess by the river. Doctor Highland is booked through the end of the year with all the trauma cases I heard."

Sasha nodded in sad agreement, and Sam figured they were talking about vets of the recent deployments plus the terrorist attack on DC and revelation of HYDRA infiltration. Sasha said, "So many. I think I found another one. New guy on Friday's outreach. He had a metal hand prosthesis and that absent stare of hardcore PTSD… He's gotta be SHIELD or military. I tried to give him my card but he didn't even see me."

- _metal hand _-

Sam's internal antennae shot up so hard he'd have concussed himself if they were real.

He turned and said, a bit too abruptly, "Metal hand?"

Sasha blinked and rocked back at the unexpected confrontation. "Yeah. Unusual prosthetic. He's got a jacket over it, even in the heat, so I think it might go up past his elbow at least. Noticeable though, since it's black metal, and he's a white dude."

"That sounds like a guy I know," Sam said, trying to be casual. "Where'd you see him?"

"At the church kitchen near the Navy Yard," Sasha answered. "I was there, with my team, like usual, you know. I tried to talk to him, but he wasn't... present. Father Lam told me the guy comes by pretty regularly to eat but doesn't stay."

"Uh well, maybe I'll wander that way," Sam said. "See if it's the same guy." He shook his head sadly.

"Give him my card then, if you do, Sam. I'd be glad to see what we can do to help him."

Sam smiled in gratitude, inwardly amused by what she'd think of finding out who he really was, and what he'd done.

'_Yeah, the guy's a trained assassin, brainwashed by Nazi spies, and very nearly helped kill a couple million people_.'

But then he realized that Sasha wouldn't care about that, only about helping him. Barnes – if it was him – was a vet who needed her help, and that was what she would want to give.

It wasn't all Sam cared about, though. A trained killer at a homeless kitchen meant he'd slipped his leash, which was a good thing if he wasn't out assassinating people, but also bad, if it was a sign of psychological distress. That could only be dangerous. Not to mention Steve had last seen him when they'd both fallen out of a helicarrier; he might be hurt.

Sam didn't mention his lead to Steve when they met. Steve had no missions to go out on after the fall of SHIELD, since he'd refused everyone else's attempt to recruit him, and he spent most of his time on the internet looking for signs that Barnes was out there someplace.

Steve might have noticed that Sam had a secret, since Sam was a poor liar on a good day, but Steve was distracted with the news that Natasha had heard from her partner Barton finally. He'd literally resurfaced – shot and found floating in the Mediterranean – and Natasha had gone to bring him home.

Sam heard the tale and offered to Steve, a bit dryly, "Well, at least you know he's not HYDRA, if they tried to kill him?"

Steve stopped turning his paper cup in slow circles and met Sam's gaze, for a moment shocked that Sam had made a joke about it, but then a half smile broke through. "Yeah, I guess there's that. She should be back soon, if all goes well."

"Yeah, hopefully." Sam was fairly optimistic by nature, but getting two people HYDRA wanted dead back into the States by commercial airliner was just asking for things to not go well.

So he didn't mention a dude with a metal arm hanging out at a shelter on the edge of DC, deciding he'd make sure it was Barnes before getting Steve's hopes up.

The evening was sultry and not in a good way, as Sam got out of the car he'd jammed at the end of the block, half in the fire zone. It was utterly stifling as he went into the side building of the church, with only fans trying to move the air around. The place was mostly deserted, except for Father Lam who was getting some volunteers into place for the coming dinner service.

But Sam managed to pull him aside for a brief chat, finding out that the metal hand guy would probably show up for dinner, but Lam had no idea where he hung out during the day. He rarely talked or made eye contact, and he slept somewhere else.

So Sam stayed, joining the volunteers, while he waited to see if Barnes would show up. He lost track of the crowd as he got suckered into serving the bean salad, but suddenly he shivered, as if struck by a cold draft, seconds before he looked up at the next in line.

_Oh shit, it's him. It's Barnes_.

He missed seeing Sam's recognition, luckily, by staring down at his tray held in his flesh hand while the other hand was nearly out of sight beneath the stained zip-front hoodie he was wearing over a faded grey t-shirt. Sam was sweating in his t-shirt and shorts; he couldn't imagine how overheated Barnes had to be in a jacket.

Sam put beans on the plate, dropping the whole ladle-worth by accident.

Barnes moved down the line to get a dinner roll, never looking up. His expression never shifted.

Sam wasn't entirely fooled by the blankness. A man with the Winter Soldier's reputation and the skills Sam had seen demonstrated, would have catalogued everyone in the place for weapons the instant he'd entered. Barnes sat down on the floor with his back to the wall and a view of both entrances. He ate neatly and quickly, without seeming to notice what he was eating.

Except for the thousand-mile-stare, he seemed healthy. Beneath the Nationals ball cap, his hair was tied back, and his stubble meant he'd shaved somewhat recently. So he was taking care of himself, which was a relief when Sam had worried that he might be completely out of it without his handlers around.

When Barnes got up to leave, he returned his tray properly in a display of ingrained etiquette, and slipped out the side door.

Sam followed him immediately. In the orange light of the late afternoon, he put on his sunglasses and looked up and down the sidewalk. There, Barnes was heading east.

Even knowing it was a stupid-ass thing to do- the guy was a spy and a killer – Sam followed. He wanted to know where Barnes was staying. Sam kept at least a half block between them, doing his best to stay behind other pedestrians. Luckily Barnes stood out more in this neighborhood than Sam did, but as they wandered past the shops closing for the evening and the blocks of townhouses, Sam tried to be careful, but also keep watch on where Barnes was going.

After another two blocks, he decided to wait for the traffic light to put more space between them, and as he waited, he watched Barnes and wiped off the sweat. As soon as the light changed again, Sam hurried across but in the few moments of his attention being on a car turning in front of him, Barnes was gone.

"Oh, c'mon, man, where'd you go?" he muttered.

Cautiously he stood in front of the market he'd last seen his quarry, wondering if maybe Barnes had gone inside to buy or steal liquor or something, but the shop was empty of brainwashed assassins.

Maybe Barnes had gone into one of the townhouses on this block. Sam headed down the street, looking for signs that might indicate a vacant apartment that Barnes might be squatting in. The basement apartments especially were tempting, since he could have gone quickly down the steps and out of sight.

There was not even a footstep to warn him, only the sense of something huge looming right behind him before he was hurtling through the air, his back slammed against the brick wall with bone-jarring force, and a powerful metal hand clamped around his throat.

Eyes filled with cold rage stared into his. If he recognized Sam from the freeway fight, there was no sign. "Why are you following me?" he demanded.

_Oh, God, strong, strong, gonna kill me_... Sam clawed at the hand trying to loosen it, as his legs kicked futilely at the wall and at Barnes, who paid no attention to his flailing.

But he wasn't already dead, which meant Barnes actually wanted an answer, and Sam figured there was only one that mattered. "I know Steve," he managed to gasp out. "Rogers. Captain... America."

Barnes froze, and his gaze flickered with recognition.

Sam repeated, wheezing, "I know... Rogers. He's looking for you."

Barnes let him go, and Sam stumbled to his knees, panting for breath and rubbing his throat. By the time Sam found his feet and breath again, Barnes was already two houses down and Sam ran after him. "Wait! Damn it, would you just stop!"

Barnes stopped, but didn't turn around.

Sam had to cough and rub his throat to find his voice. "Damn, you've got a grip. Look, I know who you are." Though the opposite wasn't true – Sam didn't know if he should be relieved or sad that Barnes didn't seem to recognize him at all. "And Steve's looking for you everywhere; he wants to find you. You're his friend and he wants to save you."

"He can't."

"You sure about that?" Sam asked, and circled to look in his face since Barnes wasn't turning around.

The words came slow, as if dredged up from underneath sixty years of sludge. "I'm not... who he thinks I am."

"Yeah, probably true. But I don't think _you _know who you are, right now. And wandering around the city waiting for HYDRA scum to scoop you back up isn't a good plan. You deserve better."

Barnes shook his head and for an instant, there was guilt and denial in his face and anguish in his eyes before it blanked out again.

Glimpsing that, Sam moderated his tone a bit. The guy was a killing machine, but he was also profoundly broken. And he knew it. "Come on back with me. My place. Nobody has any idea I know you or Rogers, so you'll be safe."

"You won't be."

"Because of you? Well, I think being in a quiet suburban house, with Captain America ready to beat on your ass if you freak out, is a lot safer for everybody than you wandering aimlessly through the city with all the innocent people around." He waved a hand, gesturing in the general direction of the apartment buildings and the strollers and the kids playing basketball at the school across the street.

Barnes' gaze followed and it was as if he saw them for the first time. His head tilted a little and his eyes showed some life as he watched them play.

Sam decided to press his advantage. "Look, I was in combat, and now I work with vets," he added. "This isn't my first time dealing with people like you."

Barnes leveled a look at him, and didn't have to say a word for Sam to give a shrug. "Okay, not exactly. But you're not a total special snowflake that's what I'm telling you. Your problems are unique to you, but they're also pretty common. I can help you. Steve can help you." He put out his hand in an offer. "If you let us."

Barnes' gaze dropped to look at his hand and then back to Sam's eyes, and in that moment, Sam saw the flat expression of the assassin falter to display Bucky Barnes, with a lost, hopeless look of someone drowning so far from land that even a stupid bathtub ducky was something to grab onto. "You know Steve?" he asked in a softer voice, as if he thought this whole conversation might be a dream.

"He's coming to my house later. If we get there first, you can clean up in the shower," Sam offered. "Because, no offense, but it's a hot sticky summer and you could, uh, use one."

He still hesitated and didn't react to Sam's teasing. He finally shook his head in the negative and started to walk away again.

"Where are you gonna go?" Sam asked him. "I don't mean right this second - you obviously have a bolt-hole someplace. Maybe you have the skills to hide forever. But that's just existing. Not living. You need help. You need friends."

"I have only missions."

Which was the most heart-breaking thing Sam had ever heard, especially spoken in that flat, matter-of-fact tone. "Well, then it's time you had friends again. Look, I know those assholes fucked you up, and you're afraid of hurting us. But even if James Buchanan Barnes doesn't mean anything to you, obviously Steve Rogers still does. Let him help you find Barnes again."

Barnes stared blankly across at the basketball court. He shook his head once, loose hair sliding on his shoulders. "If he's gone?"

"He can't be, because he's standing right here. Even if you never remember the past, doesn't mean you can't make new memories. Build a new you." Sam glimpsed the metal hand and wondered if Barnes' problem was a little more basic. He'd seen Natasha's file on the Winter Soldier - the guy was an assassin, but really he'd been HYDRA's weapon, never allowed time to be human. "You can learn to be a person again. Because let me tell you, the way Steve Rogers talks about you, you're a pretty special guy. Let us help you find that guy again."

In that handful of seconds where Barnes wavered, with no overt sign of uncertainty except in the fact that he didn't try to walk away, Sam reached out a slow hand - provoking a reaction seemed like a bad idea - and touched Barnes' flesh hand.

Sam expected him to pull back or maybe backhand him to the ground, but he didn't - allowing Sam to grip his fingers and squeeze them gently. "Come back with me. Get off the street and see Steve again."

Barnes looked down at their hands with a little frown drawn between his brows as if he couldn't believe anyone was touching him. Or was touching him gently.

It made Sam move his other hand to clasp Barnes' between his palms. Even the way his hand sat between Sam's was a hint of how horrible his life must have been since he didn't move his hand, not even to settle it more comfortably between Sam's. He just let Sam hold it, and the passivity was somehow worse knowing that Barnes could have broken every finger in Sam's hand before Sam could pull away. Sam let go of his hands and forced a smile, "My car's back near the church. C'mon."

It definitely felt like a victory when Barnes followed him, retracing their steps. He didn't need help getting into the car, though he sat up straight, head brushing the top of Sam's new-to-him Corolla (his insurance was still having a problem with "the steering wheel was pulled off through the roof by a crazy dude who had turned out to be a HYDRA assassin" - though the dumbfounded tone of his claims rep had been nearly worth the whole thing). "Try not to pull off this one, okay?" he said to Barnes, who gave him a blank confused stare in response.

_You don't remember it at all, do you? Fuck_.

"Never mind. And buckle your seat belt."

Barnes' glance this time was very much 'the Winter Soldier has no need of stupid seat belts fool' but Sam waved at him insistently with one hand. "If the cops see you don't have a belt, they'll stop us and I don't think anybody wants that." He had no idea if the police had any pictures of the Winter Soldier shooting things, but there was no need to be stupid either.

With a gesture annoyed enough to give Sam hope that there was an actual human being in there, Barnes pulled the belt. But he pulled too quickly and it locked up. He pulled at it again, harder, until Sam knew he was going to pull off the entire assembly. "No, stop! Let it go back in all the way and pull slowly."

Barnes followed direction and locked his belt with a sharp slam and pouty curl to his lip that made Sam smile. "It's a few minutes to my place, so relax."

That was probably like telling a tiger on the stove to relax, but it made Sam feel better when Barnes only watched the traffic around them with the alert eyes of someone constantly evaluating everything for a threat. He tensed when an SUV with dark windows came into view of the cross-street, and he watched it cross in front of them with a hand on the door. Sam knew he was one suspicious move from shoving the door from the frame and fleeing.

"You know the HYDRA files were dumped to the internet, right? They're in hiding, not driving around government cars right now," Sam commented idly.

"HYDRA survives. They are everywhere. Cut off one head and two more take its place," Barnes recited, eyes restlessly flicking over the cars around them.

"Nice propaganda, but it's gonna take awhile. They were hit hard." Sam took the exit to head to his house. He was feeling a bit paranoid though, and asked his car companion, "How do I check if we're followed before I head home?"

"There are two cars that took the same exit and one is at the standard CIA following distance. Pull over abruptly and I'll watch."

Sam had to digest that for a moment that Barnes knew that, but in a minute found an appropriate place, pulling over abruptly into a mini-mall parking lot. In the seat beside him Barnes turned his head to watch with cold eyes. Then he turned back around. "Clear."

"Ah. Good. Thanks." Sam pulled back out into the street and went home. Pulling in to his driveway, he hoped Natasha had looked for listening devices, because it suddenly occurred to him with the Winter Soldier in his passenger seat that someone might be watching him. Someone might know and be interested in him, and then be very interested in a certain ex-soldier visiting his house…

God, this was a good way to go nuts. He took a deep breath and let the car turn off. "We're home. Looks like we did beat Steve, so let's go in. Please try not to wreck my stuff."

He led the way to the front door, unlocked it, and held it. Figuring humanization was best to begin right away, he invited, "Come in, Barnes."

Barnes walked inside without hesitation, but only got through the short entry hall before pausing in the living room to look around. Sam had no doubt he'd already memorized the layout, could probably move around in the dark and not touch anything, but he clearly had no idea what to do next besides stand there.

"You want a shower?" Sam asked. "I think that would be a good idea. I can dump your clothes. I can scrounge some things that'll fit you okay. Even you ridiculously broad-shouldered superhero types."

Barnes didn't follow him to the hall that led to the bedrooms and guest bath. Sam turned and Barnes asked, "Why?"

"Why am I helping you?" Sam asked. "Because…" There were a lot of potential answers there - because Steve believed in Barnes and Sam believed in Steve, or because Barnes needed help. "Because you got fucked over by people who never cared about you, and that's wrong," he answered simply. "And I - I went to war, I lost friends, and when I came back all I wanted to do was help the guys who came back but weren't as lucky as I was. And that's you. I thought before there was nothing to save," he admitted, "But I was wrong. You're a person, and that means I want to try." He shrugged. "Rogers rubs off on people, I guess."

Barnes turned that over, a little frown remaining as if he didn't understand it, but he nodded and joined Sam with those confident strides that suggested he'd made a choice.

At the door to the guest bathroom, Sam glanced in there to make sure there was shampoo, soap, and towels. "I'm gonna find some clothes. I'll knock and crack the door open, and put them onto the sink."

He figured specific plans would help Barnes not freak out at unexpected and possibly hostile noises. "Please be gentle with the fixtures. My insurance company is still bitching about the car. Do you need anything else? Like, a plastic bag for the prosthesis?" At Barnes' blank look, Sam elaborated, "So it doesn't get wet?"

"It functions under water," Barnes declared.

"Oh, well, that's cool. Let me know if you need anything?" Barnes didn't answer, so Sam left him standing in the guest bathroom and closed the door behind him. Inhaling a deep breath, he settled himself. It was a crazy thing he was doing, but so far, so good.

Shortly thereafter the shower began to run, which was also a relief, because Sam had visions of Barnes either not remembering how to do this himself or freaking out at something in the bathroom with all its shiny metal fixtures.

He dug through his drawers looking for those boxers that were too big, sweatpants that might be short but would probably fit, and one of Rogers' t-shirts out of his drawer in the guest room. Rogers and Romanoff had both left stuff here in their makeshift safe house, so Sam had given them each a drawer and space in the closet to hang a spare set of tactical gear. Now it looked like he might have to clear a third drawer.

Knocking twice on the bathroom door, he opened it and put the pile on the edge of the sink. In a quick glance to the mirror, he could see a shape behind the glass door under the water. Barnes was washing his hair, not freaking out. Maybe this was gonna turn out okay.

In the living room, Sam opened a bottle and turned on the tv to check if the game was on yet, keeping an ear cocked toward his house guest. The water turned off sooner than Sam would have expected, given someone who'd been on the streets for a while, but he probably was also trained to get in, get clean, and get out, not linger like an actual person in the water.

Sam sighed and shook his head, wondering who the hell he could find to treat Barnes. Someone skilled, discreet, and not easily intimidated by someone who could rip their head off.

And not a secret member of HYDRA. God, what a fucking mess.

A crashing noise of breaking glass had him leaping to his feet. "Barnes! Shit!"

He yanked open the bathroom door, to find the mirror that had been above the sink was a pulverized mess, there was a deep indentation in the wall board where it had been from a fist, and a naked assassin had wedged himself between the toilet and the wall, his chest heaving and his eyes unseeing. His hands were in brutally tight fists, the flesh one white-knuckled and pressed against his own knees as if he wanted to punch a hole in himself as he'd punched a hole in the mirror.

Sam knelt down right away, as far back as he could. "Barnes, it's Sam. Can you hear me?" he asked gently. He waited and when that got no reply, he repeated it. He tried three times, knowing in a panic attack or traumatic flashback he needed to be calm and patient. With the washcloth he picked up the mirror pieces and put them carefully in the trash bin, while slowly Barnes' breaths evened out.

"That's right. You're safe here, Barnes," Sam reassured him, "you're safe. Come back now, remember where you are. You're in my house. In Virginia. The year is 2014."

After a little while Barnes blinked and alertness returned to his eyes. He looked at Sam. "I wrecked your stuff."

"I kinda figured you would. It's okay. Let's get you dressed and away from the toilet. I'm guessing that bit of floor is germ city." He offered his hand and after another pause, Barnes unclenched his fist and put his warm hand in Sam's.

When Barnes was standing with absolutely no self-consciousness of being nude, Sam saw that indeed Barnes had that same supersoldier physique that Rogers did - maybe not quite as tall or broad, but solid and cut. "You know, before I met you people, I thought I was in good shape. Damn."

He handed the shorts over, after inspecting them for glass, and coaxed Barnes into the hall to put on the rest. "Figured Rogers' shirt would fit you."

Barnes touched the front of the grey t-shirt. "This is his?" he asked, voice soft.

"Yeah. He keeps some stuff here. Have a seat." He waved at the couch, and Barnes went there and sat down, both feet on the floor, back straight, almost at attention. Sam grimaced; he'd meant it as an invitation but plainly Barnes had taken it as an order. He was going to have to be more careful about his words. "You want pizza?" Sam asked, not surprised when Barnes didn't answer. "Do you know what you like on it?"

That one Barnes did answer. "No."

Sam tried to keep the pity off his face and out of his voice, keeping to calm acceptance, instead of the useless anger he was feeling at the people who had screwed up an American so badly he didn't even know what he wanted on pizza. "I'll get a few things you can try. I know Rogers can put one away himself so I'm sure you're the same." He found the tv remote and flipped through looking for something harmless to watch, settling on a cupcake baking show. "Bet you missed the cupcake craze, too. Every couple years there's some new food insanity. At least cupcakes are actually delicious- kale is the worst parts of lettuce and collards blended together. It's just nasty." He wrinkled his nose and made a face. He didn't expect a smile, but he had hoped for a little relaxation in that ramrod posture.

He pulled out his phone and ordered the pizza on the app, then texted Steve. "_Hope ur coming over. Surprise guest_."

'_What guest_?' The reply came back promptly which meant Steve wasn't driving.

Sam rolled his eyes at the phone and texted back: "_surprise meant something else back in ur day_?"

He put his phone back in his pocket to find Barnes watching him with a nearly laser-like intensity as if he was suspicious Sam was texting HYDRA. "Rogers is on the way."

That made Barnes shift his gaze - at first Sam thought it was to the television, but he was looking toward the sliding glass door that led to the patio, contemplating escape.

"Barnes. Please. Don't leave me here to tell Steve that you were here and then you left before he could see you. It'll crush him," Sam said. "He wants to find you so badly."

Barnes dropped his gaze to his hands, flexing his fingers. "What if I hurt him?"

His soft question was such a surprise, Sam wildly thought someone else had to be speaking for a brief shocked moment. He recovered to ask in a carefully level voice, "Do you _want_ to hurt him?"

"I was ordered to kill him."

Which didn't answer the question, or maybe it did, but it wasn't all of the answer. "But you didn't," Sam reminded him. "You didn't, because those memories are still in you, somewhere. Reminding you of who he was to you before all this evil started. Just… try to hold onto that part. And nobody here is gonna blame you if it takes awhile. It's gonna take time, Barnes, and it's gonna take help. But it's possible."

Those pale eyes flicked up to him, and seemed a bit brighter, before he looked down again. "I think your bathroom is proof this is a bad idea," Barnes muttered. Sam lifted his brows and smiled.

"Ah, so smartass is your natural state. Good to know."

Barnes twitched as if he might protest that, but said nothing.

"You want a beer?" Sam asked. Barnes didn't answer. Sam bit his lip, pondering how to do this. It wasn't a deliberate rudeness, Sam knew, but Barnes was so repressed that he didn't hear the words because they simply weren't for him. Sam moved closer until Barnes lifted his gaze. Sam repeated deliberately, "Barnes. Do you want a beer?"

Barnes went utterly still, as if the question shut him down. His gaze flicked to the side, in a betrayal of uncertainty, even though he didn't move otherwise. He didn't know how to answer.

"Do you know what beer is?" Sam asked, more softly, trying not to sound judgmental or mocking.

Barnes sensed the trap in the question, and took a moment to answer, "Yes."

"Do you want to drink one?"

His hands gathered to tight fists and his jaw clenched. He still didn't answer.

"Was beer forbidden?" Sam asked. "Because you can have something else, if you want."

"Winter Soldier wants nothing," Barnes said, the words clearly by rote. "I take what I am given, no more."

"That sucks," Sam said. Though if he were going to put a superhuman assassin on a leash, he would certainly have brainwashed him right out of personal desires. Which meant that Sam had to give him options and persuade him to choose, to get more used to it.

"Be right back." He went to the fridge, grabbed one bottle of beer, a can of Coke, and a glass of milk, coming back to set all three in front of Barnes on the coffee table. "These are all yours. You can drink all of them, none of them, or just one. Whatever you want."

Then he flopped into his armchair and picked up the tv remote to change the channel and pretend that he didn't care which one Barnes picked. He picked nothing at first, looking at the three drinks on the table as if Sam had left him some sort of sudoku puzzle to solve, but then with a curious twitch of his lips that might have been the beginnings of a smile, he picked up the milk.

Ah, there you are, Sam thought, rather satisfied by the small success. It was kind of funny that Rogers usually picked milk, too, though he was not averse to beer. He'd complained about too much pasteurization making milk taste terrible at first, so Sam now bought raw milk for him.

Barnes drained the milk and left the other two alone.

They watched through to the end of the cupcake show, which was followed by an episode of Grill It that Sam had already seen, so he found a rerun of the Fresh Prince to watch. Something mild for his new friend.

Barnes watched it, not apparently amused but not looking away either, until in the middle of the Swiffer commercial his head snapped up and his eyes went alert. He was standing in the archway between the front hall and the living room before Sam heard a motorcycle in the driveway.

"It's Rogers," Sam told him.

That didn't make him relax; if anything Barnes got more tense. His gaze was fixed on the front door, and his fingers twitched as if he was looking for a weapon to hold.

In that taut moment, the cheerful ringing of the doorbell was both loud and out of place. "I have to open the door," Sam murmured to Barnes. "Don't you dare leave."

He slipped past Barnes' bulk and opened the front door. It was Steve, of course.


	2. Chapter 2

"Hey, come in," Sam greeted and held the door for Steve.

"What did you mean about-" Steve started, but then his eyes went past Sam to the figure lurking behind him. "Oh my God."

"Get inside," Sam told him. His sharp tone was enough to spur Steve's feet into carrying him over the threshold so Sam could shut the door.

But Steve never took his eyes off Barnes, astonished by his appearance. "Bucky?" Steve asked hesitantly, but with hope shining in his eyes. He lifted his hands, tentatively reaching out and then pulling back as if he wanted to touch Barnes or hug him, but didn't dare. "Bucky? It is you."

Barnes stayed where he was, absolutely still, his hands clenched into tight fists. His face was blank but his eyes were fixed on Steve with exact precision.

Steve pulled his hands back and folded them together against his chest, trying to hold in his overwhelming feelings. "You're here. I never - how? How are you here?"

"I found him," Sam explained. "A friend at the VA mentioned a homeless vet with a metal arm, and I figured I should check if it was him. I didn't want to get your hopes up if it was someone else."

"I - I can hardly believe it," Steve murmured. "And - and you're not trying to fight me. Or anything. Are you … okay? Bucky, do you… remember me?" he asked so tentatively, so full of hope, it made Sam wish the answer was anything other than what it was.

Barnes shook his head once, and Steve bit his lip, but Barnes opened his mouth and added, "I know you. You're … familiar."

Steve's face fell, disappointed that Barnes didn't remember, but then he smiled and nodded. "Yes, that's right. You know me. You're my best friend. And I know it's been awful for you, but it's still a miracle to me that you're alive. That we're both here in the future together."

Barnes said nothing, but Steve's eyes dropped to Barnes' hands and Sam realized the assassin's hands were shaking. "Bucky?" Steve asked quietly.

Then abruptly, like a rubber band snapping, Barnes said, "He's dead."

He turned around and stalked away, ending in front of the sliding glass door. Sam tensed, praying Barnes wasn't going to smash through it, but he stopped and seemed to be staring at Sam's small yard.

Steve's gaze had followed him, anguish and helplessness clear in his blue eyes.

"It takes time," Sam reminded him in a murmur, knowing Barnes could hear him and meaning the words for both of them. "But he's here. That's a giant step already."

Steve nodded once and gripped Sam's shoulder. "Thank you, Sam."

"That's what friends are for, man. Come in, have a seat. I think they started the game."

"Dodgers?" Steve asked, going along with Sam's attempt at normalcy. His tone was light, even though he hardly took his eyes off Barnes.

"You know they moved out of Brooklyn right?" Sam teased.

"I heard," Steve answered dryly and then he called, "Buck, our team moved to LA, did you know that? Unbelievable. Almost makes me want to be a Yankees fan."

Barnes snorted. He didn't say anything else or turn, but Sam and Steve exchanged smiling glances at the reaction. The Winter Soldier had no opinions on sports teams; Bucky Barnes still remembered being a Brooklyn fan.

"I ordered pizza," Sam said. "Though Barnes already ate. I bet he's like you though and can eat his weight in pepperoni and not gain an ounce. My jealousy knows no bounds, fyi."

"I'll help you run it off," Steve offered.

"And fuck you very much," Sam retorted, grabbing the remote to find the game. Dodgers against the Braves.

Sam was not much of a baseball fan, preferring just about any other sport, but Steve's enthusiasm was infectious. Plus, it seemed something he found reassuring in its same rhythms and plays as he remembered, so hopefully Barnes would, too.

Barnes didn't move from his post at the door or speak, as the sky grew dark outside. Steve looked at him, occasionally included him in some comment about a similar play or a particularly good pitch, but generally let him be to watch the game.

He moved when a car pulled up outside, turning with alert eyes on the front door.

"Hopefully pizza," Sam said.

"Here," Steve pulled out his wallet and held out a twenty.

"I got it."

"Sam. Just take it. You put up with so much-"

"Uh huh, are we just gonna pretend Natasha didn't set up some kind of autopay for my mortgage?" Sam returned. "Because she did. But fine, if you insist." He snatched the bill from Steve's hand and went to the door.

For just an instant he wondered what would happen if it was really HYDRA on the other side, coming to take back their lost lamb. When he looked through the peephole he saw what looked like a genuine pizza delivery kid, holding a pizza warming bag and a bored expression as he waited for someone to open the door._ Huh, I've seen this movie, where he's keeping a gun in the bag. Damn, I need to stop hanging out with spies_.

There proved to be no gun in the bag, only two pizzas, and the delivery boy was a delivery boy. Sam still felt relieved when he shut the door and heard the car drive away.

He opened both boxes on the coffee table. "Since Barnes doesn't remember what he likes on pizza I got half-and-half on both, so he can try things."

Not that Barnes moved toward the pizzas, though he relocated to a position with his back to the wall where he could see both the back door and the television.

Sam and Steve both ate and watched the game, Steve eventually taking Barnes a slice. "Here, you can't watch a game without food. You don't like mushrooms," he told Barnes. "I doubt that's changed. Ham and pineapple reminds me of the war, all that spam on bread we ate, so it's not my favorite. But try it. Even if it's not like Eddie's place."

He held up the pizza slice on its paper plate until Barnes took it, glancing down at it with a little frown as if Steve had handed him goat tongue on fennel, not a slice of Hawaiian pizza.

"Steve." Sam beckoned him to back off. Reluctantly Steve returned to his place on the couch, glancing back at Barnes who didn't eat the pizza, but held it in his hand unsure whether he was supposed to eat it, hold it, or kill someone with it.

But Sam figured he was doing well, all things considered. Barnes was watching the game, when his eyes weren't checking the back door and the other windows, and listening to the sounds of cars going by and the kids three doors down playing basketball in their driveway. It took a full inning, but he did eventually eat the slice of pizza and took the empty plate to the kitchen trash bin before returning to his post at the wall.

The game went extra innings, and not even Steve's enthusiasm was enough to keep Sam off the internet. After checking his usual sites, he started to look for a doctor in earnest. Someone affiliated with the VA, who would be used to combat trauma cases, but not someone so closely affiliated with DoD they'd be in a useful position for HYDRA to infiltrate. Someone teaching at one of the nearby medical schools maybe, but still with a clinical practice. Then, when he had a list of some possibles, he'd ask Natasha when she came back. She would probably have some ideas, too.

Over time, Barnes drifted nearer. He didn't sit down, but he ended up behind the couch, at the opposite end from where Steve was sitting. And he stopped watching the game, to look at Steve's profile.

Steve didn't turn his head, staying focused on the tv, even though he knew Barnes was looking at him. "I used to be smaller," Steve murmured.

"I saw the exhibit."

Now Steve turned his head. "Did you recognize anything? That was us. That stupid video of you and me in France…"

"It… it's like a dream," Barnes answered haltingly. "I see your face, and I know you. But everything else… they burned it. I'm not him."

Steve tried to smile at him. "Buried, not burned. Or you wouldn't remember me at all."

Sam decided he'd better intervene with that, leaning forward enough to attract Barnes' eyes. "The goal is wellness. If recovering your memory is part of that, that's great, but it's not necessary." Steve shot him a look of betrayal. Sam insisted, "I'm sorry, but it's true. He needs to be well, more than he needs to remember the thirties."

"But…" Steve started and then barked a laugh, "Wow, that's selfish, isn't it? To whine about him not remembering me when God knows what hell those HYDRA bastards put him through while I was on ice. Just…" he looked at Barnes again and swallowed hard, "know that I will do everything I can to help you. And I will never give up on having you back."

He offered his hand toward Barnes, blue eyes bright and his smile tentative but hopeful that Barnes would take it. At first Barnes' eyes flickered toward it to check for a weapon and finding none, dismissed it as nothing important. But his gaze returned to it, when Steve kept it there, like it was a strange new beast wandering into his garden. The mechanism of human interaction kicked in gear slowly, and he lifted his right hand and held it out toward Steve, palm upward. But when Steve moved to close the distance, Barnes pulled his hand back to his side and retreated to the wall, that hand fisted against his thigh.

Steve dropped his hand, shoulders drooping with disappointment.

"Well, I don't know about superheroes, but this ordinary dude has to get sleep because I have actual work tomorrow," Sam said. "Steve, you're welcome to stay over."

Actually he was _highly encouraged_ to stay over, and Steve got the message. "Thanks. I'll take you up on that. There's a pullout in your office isn't there?"

"Yeah. You know where the linens are. And Barnes, if you'd follow me, I can show you where you can sleep." Sam led Barnes, who followed tamely to the guest room. "The sheets are clean." Not that he thought Barnes cared about the sheets at all, but he was determined to treat Barnes like a guest as much as possible. Like a person.

Sam hesitated then asked, "You do sleep, right?"

"Sometimes."

"Well, try to get some rest. I'm sure this has been a pretty emotionally draining day for you." He said the words to that utterly impassive face, feeling kind of ridiculous for them when they got no reaction at all, but he thought they were true words, nonetheless. Just because he wasn't displaying emotions didn't mean he didn't have any. And coming face to face with Steve again had to be confusing, at the very least.

"Good night. I hope you stay," he wished Barnes, who didn't answer as he stood in the middle of the small bedroom.

The last view Sam had was of Barnes sitting on the edge of the bed stiffly, like he might just sit there all night, as Sam pulled the door shut.

It turned out that it might have been better if Barnes had sat on the bed all night, when Sam woke at a crashing noise. At first disoriented by the sound, he was halfway to the door of his bedroom before his eyes were open.

The door to the guest bedroom hung ajar and the lights were on. "Bucky!" Steve was calling urgently. "Bucky!"

From the doorway, Sam saw that Barnes had wedged himself on the floor between the foot of the bed and the dresser. He was apparently still asleep, but had knocked the dresser over, dumping the framed photos and the random gifts of porcelain birds and decorative boxes Sam hadn't ever known what else to do with. Steve was kneeling beside him, holding the flailing wrists. "Bucky! Wake up!" he called, but Barnes seemed trapped in his nightmare, moaning deep in his throat.

"Let him go, Steve," Sam said. Steve glanced at him, as if he were nuts, as Barnes continued to struggle. "You're making it worse. Just let him be."

Steve let go of Barnes as if the touch burned. Barnes flailed once more, metal fist slamming into the wall with a solid thud that dented the plaster, but then he curled up, both arms tucked close to his body. The deep moan changed to a distressed whimper, but he slowly calmed to silence.

"C'mon, let him sleep," Sam said. He was pretty sure Barnes was awake now, but if he was trying to ignore them, he wanted to be left alone. Sam coaxed Steve out and shut the door on their way out, and Steve didn't even notice that he'd ripped out the lower hinge in his frantic pass into the room.

Steve went straight to the back door to look out into the darkness. "Oh God," Steve whispered. "I do all the wrong things…"

"Steve, you're trying to help. He knows that," Sam murmured. "And that's all any of us can do. He's better."

"This is _better_?" Steve demanded, his voice hoarsening, and he gestured back toward the bedroom.

"It wasn't that long ago he was trying to kill us," Sam reminded him. "This is better."

Steve rested his head against the glass of the door. "Yeah. You're right. I know. It's just… he's right here, Sam. He's in the next room, and I want so badly to help him..."

"Hang in there," Sam urged him. "Get some sleep while you can."

On his way back to his own bed, Sam decided to call out tomorrow. He'd go in for his group, but otherwise, Barnes seemed to listen to him, and Sam didn't want to break the fragile rapport they'd set up.

The next day passed with a creeping slowness. Barnes was awake, standing at the back door when Sam got up. "You can go outside," Sam murmured. "You're not a prisoner. If you'd like something to do, you could water the plants."

Barnes glanced at him with a frown as if he didn't understand the suggestion, but then with look outside, pulled the door aside and went out. Sam watched, curious, as Barnes surveyed the garden, noticed the faucet and the hose, and with a nearly menacing deliberation attached a spray nozzle like he was screwing on a silencer, and stalked to the faucet to turn it on.

Then, standing in what was probably the exact center, he proceeded to spray the garden.

Steve joined him after a moment and together they watched. "The Soviet Ghost is watering your garden," he murmured. "This is surreal, Sam."

"Better plants than people," Sam said. "And part of therapy is to help combat vets find healthier ways to manage stress. Let him do what he wants, and I'll see what I've got for breakfast."

Barnes watered for nearly a solid hour, dousing the plants and the lawn until it was a swamp, but Sam didn't stop him. He finally stopped himself, turning off the water, but didn't come back inside for another twenty minutes, looking at the garden.

When he entered the house, Sam called to him, "Thank you for watering."

Barnes actually looked at him and gave him a little nod of acknowledgment.

"I put things on the table for breakfast, if you want something," Sam offered, gesturing to the dining table where he'd put two boxes of cereal, dry toast and jam, and a cup of blueberry yogurt. "Help yourself."

Barnes moved closer, looked at the table, but didn't move toward it.

"Too many choices?" Sam asked. Very faintly, Barnes nodded his head.

"I … don't know," he whispered. "How."

"There's no wrong answer," Sam reassured him. "Though that would probably be easier. Take your time. Pick randomly. Do eenie-meanie-miney-mo. Whatever. But I'm trying to ease you into making your own choices. You made a big one already, leaving HYDRA, and not killing me or Steve. And I get that's a decision you have to keep making, like an addict choosing not to get a fix all the time. But the little decisions like what to eat for breakfast are the ones that are going help you live day-to-day."

Barnes turned his head to look at Sam with some open confusion in his eyes. "How do you know?"

"I told you. I've worked with trauma survivors before."

Barnes surveyed the food choices again and whispered, "And they get better?"

"Yeah, they get better. It's hard, I won't lie to you, and I don't know that you'll ever get back what you lost - I'm not a doctor, I just try to help - but I can tell you, you keep on this path, it'll get better."

Barnes inhaled a deeper breath and let it out slowly, returning to calm. He nodded once, more to himself, and then took a spoon and the yogurt cup off the table. Sam was fairly sure he took it because it was a self-contained unit that didn't require further decisions, but still, it was a choice he made himself about what he wanted to eat. And Sam shared a smile with Steve behind his back, as he took it to the corner armchair to eat it.

The day passed with Sam getting Barnes to help him make cupcakes - not because he needed cupcakes, even though he said they were for a party at work - but because following a recipe seemed like a good way to let Barnes follow orders without dehumanizing him.

Steve hovered to watch, until Sam exiled him with a pointed glare. When he came back from running to Baltimore, he couldn't stop grinning at the sight of the plain cakes cooling on the counter. He tried to steal one and Barnes' prosthetic hand seized his wrist to stop him. "No."

Steve's grin faded as Barnes' kept holding it, tightly enough even Steve started to grimace. "Bucky?" he prompted, when Barnes didn't let go. "You're going to break my wrist. You don't want to do that." His voice was level and seemed to reach whatever space Barnes had disappeared inside, and he relinquished Steve's wrist, pushing him back.

Sam cleared his throat. "Let's make frosting."

Sam expected more excitement in cupcake making, but it turned out even better than he'd hoped. Barnes remembered the technique from yesterday's show and with a few attempts, he'd perfected the swirl. Thereafter he'd frosted all three dozen with an intense focus and precision that was a bit frightening, imagining that turned to the task of killing people.

Barnes stepped back, wiping his hands on a towel. "Is this sufficient?" he asked Sam.

Sam nodded, impressed. "You could open a cupcake store with these. Damn."

"They're amazing. Beautiful," Steve said. "Please can we split one? Like that one?" he pointed to one of the early frosting attempts which wasn't as good. "I really want to taste one."

"They're for Sam."

"Oh, like I'm not trying one." Sam handed one to Steve, pushed one toward Barnes, and ate one. "Let's all have one. We have plenty."

Sam had to smile to see Barnes holding the frosted cupcake in his metal hand while he delicately peeled off the paper cup. Eating it, his eyes widened, in orgasmic surprise. Watching him eat it was better than eating it himself- Barnes was blown away by the sugar and the vanilla flavoring and the soft texture, and maybe the distant memories of eating cake as a child somewhere in there. It was terribly sad to think about what he'd been denied, and yet joyful to watch him experience it for the first time.

Then something snapped and he lashed out, smashing the mixing bowl into the refrigerator, and shoved past Steve to slam the bathroom door behind him. A moment later violent retching sounds suggested he was vomiting up the cupcake.

Steve turned to go to him, but Sam stopped him. "Steve. No."

"But-"

"He's realizing what's missing," Sam murmured. "Let him come to terms with that."

Steve picked up the mixing bowl, which was dented but intact, and turned it around in his hands. "For awhile I was so angry," he murmured. "I'd lost all these things, and I was alone in this future that I never should have seen. But then I realized he was Bucky, so I wasn't alone after all. Some miracle had kept him alive and he was back… but it wasn't really a miracle, was it? Not for him. I mean, shit, I wouldn't wish what happened to him on my worst enemy, and it happened to my best friend."

"Just remember, without you, he'd still be their prisoner."

"Yeah," Steve agreed heavily, then set the bowl on the counter. "I'll wash up," he offered. "It'll keep me from hovering."

"I'll have to keep you around, Rogers," Sam teased. It was quiet in the bathroom as he knocked on the door before cracking it open. "Barnes? How are you doing?"

Barnes was upright at the sink, looking into where the mirror had been as if it was still there. "I should go," he murmured. "I'm not safe."

"You're doing okay…"

Barnes shook his head in denial. "I should be in control -"

"Whoa there," Sam interrupted, taking an urgent step forward. He stopped when Barnes reflexively tensed that Sam might be attacking. "No, that's Winter Soldier stuff. You are a human being. You have _feelings_. You have emotions. And they're okay. But yes, you need a better way to express anger than beating the shit out of things, including yourself. So maybe," he considered what would be a safe alternative, "you and the Captain out there should go running. I'd say spar but I don't think fighting, even fake fighting, is a good idea right now. But running - hell, you might be the only one who can keep up with him."

Bucky's eyes drifted to the hall in Steve's direction, evaluating. "Might be spotted."

"Rogers knows some routes that are quiet. You don't have to jog past the CIA building." Sam's eyes flicked to Barnes' arm. "You'll have to cover that. It's pretty distinctive, but I've got a long-sleeve compression shirt that might stretch enough."

Barnes nodded once in acceptance. "I need exercise." He said it flatly, as if he needed to take his dog out for a walk, and Sam patted his arm, thinking wistfully of a time when Barnes would find all this easier.

"Okay, we'll see what we can do."

Steve was, of course, delighted to go running with Barnes and help him in this tangible way.

"Keep a fast pace," Sam advised him as Barnes was changing. "Push him."

Steve snorted a laugh. "You didn't fight him: he's gonna push me."

"But," Sam interjected, lifting a hand, "if he suffers a flashback or something, keep an eye on him, but try not to interfere unless someone's in danger. Just remind him verbally where and when he is. Don't hold him. And call me on the cell if you need me to come pick you up."

Steve nodded, in more somber understanding, that shifted to a bright smile when Barnes emerged in a red long-sleeve stretch shirt and the shorts he'd slept in. The shirt was super tight and rather absurdly short, but at least it covered down to his forearm, and hopefully wouldn't give him heat-stroke like a jacket.

Sam felt anxious, like he was sending his kids off to school, as they took off down the street. _Steve can handle Barnes. He'll be okay._

Both Rogers and Barnes returned no worse for wear. Steve was in high spirits. "I told you, Sam. He set a fast pace. That was the best run I've had in awhile."

Barnes' face was impassive. "You should push harder."

"Yeah, well, now I've got you to train with." Steve patted his shoulder, and rather to Sam's surprise Barnes didn't react to it. "I'm gonna take a shower; the humidity is miserable out there."

He wandered off down the hall, and Barnes watched him. Or really, stared after him as if he … almost … would call Steve back.

But he turned away and headed for the guest room shower, and Sam hoped it went better this time.

After he'd showered, Steve came out to the main room with damp hair and his phone in hand. "Natasha checked in. She got Clint safe and they're at the airport in," he checked the screen again, "Zagreb. Croatia. They should be here tomorrow."

Sam nodded. That was good news that they were on the way, even if it probably wasn't good that she'd left Italy to get out.

Steve saw his concern. "I think she used to, um, freelance more out of that part of the world. She's got connections." He made a face and shrugged. "Not much I can do about it, anyway."

"So tell me about Barton, since he'll be here tomorrow," Sam requested.

"Clint Barton-" Barnes said, and both Sam and Steve twitched, having not realized that Barnes had left the bathroom. Barnes continued, "Codename Hawkeye. SHIELD level 7 operative. Sniper and perimeter defensive specialist, expert user of compound bow and firearms."

"You got briefed?" Sam asked, a bit amused in spite of himself by the report.

"He is a target," Barnes said, then blinked and corrected, "was a target."

"That's right," Steve encouraged him. "He was a target, Bucky, but he's not now. He's just a guy whose own people betrayed him and tried to kill him. Like the rest of SHIELD, I guess." He hesitated, then sighed with disappointment and regret that SHIELD had turned into a nest of vipers all along. "Anyway, I can put them up at my place, so we don't crowd out Sam in his own house."

Sam spread his hands. "What's a house for? Though," he reconsidered with a look at Barnes, "I don't want you to feel crowded."

Barnes gave him a flat stare that suggested that would never happen, then stalked off without a word, leaving Sam and Steve to stare at each other.

"I'm sure Natasha will come here first," Steve said finally. "We'll play it by ear."

* * *

It was a good thing they were playing it by ear, since that night was another terrible one for Barnes. He woke both of them, slamming into the wall so that Steve had to hold him down before he injured himself or damaged the wall too much.

"Bucky! Bucky, wake up and see me!" Steve implored him, kneeling across him trying to pin his flesh arm down, while he held Barnes' prosthesis with both hands against the floor. "Bucky! Bucky, wake up."

"Barnes," Sam added his voice, hoping that might get to him. "You're okay, you're safe. You're free, calm down and Steve can let you go. You need to breathe, breathe, okay, open your eyes and breathe."

One last effort of thrashing around blindly as Steve held him, then Barnes shuddered. His eyes opened, at first holding a clear terror in them, then chest heaving for breath and his face shining with beads of sweat, his vision cleared.

"I know you," he whispered.

Steve freed his hands, nodding a little as he looked down with distressed eyes, "You know me," he confirmed. "Bucky, you know me." When Barnes said nothing more, Steve shifted to the side to get off him.

"There was… there was a train," Barnes whispered. Steve froze as if he'd been shot, and his gaze went to Barnes with a terrible desperate hope suddenly returned to them. Barnes didn't notice, staring up at the ceiling. "In my dream. There's a train. It's cold. It's when I fell, isn't it?"

"Oh God, Bucky," Steve said miserably. "You fell, and I - we - thought there was no way you could've survived the fall. I couldn't go look for your body, because we had to stop Schmidt and then I crashed, and- and everyone thought you were dead, because I told them you fell and you were gone. But to remember that… you don't remember when we used to go to baseball games, and you don't remember when your mom would cook for us or you'd come haul me out from behind Giamatti's when my mouth got away from me… but you remember the damn train…"

Barnes sat up. "The train… and you," he added, and Steve's head jerked up, stirred from his guilt and grief. "It's a dream, there's other bits mixed in, but you're there. You were yelling at me…"

Steve absorbed that and found a smile for him. "You mostly yelled at me actually."

"I'm not surprised," Barnes returned dryly.

"Do you think you can sleep more?" Sam asked him.

Barnes' gaze touched Sam and then Steve, before dropping to his hands. "I woke you."

"It's okay," Sam reassured him.

"No, no, it's not," Barnes said. "I'm wrecking your sleep - your house - " he gestured toward the banged-up wall. "It's not okay."

"Yes, it is," Sam insisted. "Walls can be fixed. And sleep is - whatever, doesn't matter. You matter."

Barnes shook his head in denial, but didn't speak. He slumped, letting his hair hang in his face.

"If you don't want to go back to sleep, I'll stay up with you," Steve offered. "We can play cards. Or Sam has an Xbox. We can kill zombies together."

"Video game," Sam interjected at the uncomprehending look in Barnes' eyes at the latter.

"I …" Barnes hesitated, inability to express a preference warring with an actual preference. "No killing," he said finally and his hand curled into a fist with a metallic whisper.

Steve nodded in acceptance. "No problem. I know where the deck of cards are. We'll play something easy like gin rummy. We used to play that one all the time, when we were kids. You wanna join us, Sam?"

Sam got to his feet and stretched his back. "Thanks, but I'll leave the late night card playing to the old people, and hit the hay. Little falcons need their beauty sleep."

In the morning, Sam wasn't surprised to find they'd gone running again, and given the numbers scribbled on scrap paper left on the dining room table, they'd played cards long after Sam had fallen asleep to the sounds of card shuffling and murmured discussions of points.

When they came back from their run - with Sam teasing them about running to Philly and back - Barnes spent twice as long in the shower, which was good for knowing he was letting himself relax and good for Sam and Steve to talk about him without him probably able to hear them.

"No freakouts?" Sam asked.

"Nah. It was a good run. I have the bad feeling hard workouts are what he's used to, so it might have been because of that, but still, he stayed present."

Sam didn't really believe it would last - Barnes was in shock and he was going to get more upset before he got better, but at least he was fighting off the Winter Soldier's emotional distance.

Or at least he tried. A couple hours later, Barnes was standing sentinel at the back door, and though he looked inattentive, Sam would have bet a billion dollars he was aware of everything behind him. It turned out appearances were not actually deceiving. He'd let his guard down enough that Steve was able to approach, and when he started with a casual, "Hey, do you wanna-"

Barnes whipped around, startled back into his reflexes, his metal hand wrapped around Steve's throat as he slammed him into the wall.

"Bucky!" Steve gargled against the pressure on his neck. He needed both hands just to pry the metal fingers looser. "Bucky!"

Sam rushed over. "Barnes, wait - it's not -" For his trouble, he got backhanded by Barnes' other hand, and smashed into the couch, his face aflame. He moved his jaw, which seemed fine, as Steve pleaded, "Bucky, see me! Bucky Barnes, you are my friend. My friend!"

Barnes blinked awareness back into his eyes, stirring awake, and dropped his hand.

"I… I almost killed you," he whispered. "I hurt you. I hurt you before. I … I shouldn't be here."

Sam was wondering if it was true, that Barnes really shouldn't be there, but there was no place Barnes could go that wouldn't involve restraints and cells, if not full on betrayal and return to captivity. Sam was less than certain all of HYDRA was gone and even if it wasn't, it wasn't as if humans had to be Nazis to do awful things to people they thought were helpless or useful. He didn't want to send Barnes back to that, but there was no doubt that Barnes was truly dangerous.

"Yes, yes you should," Steve reassured him quickly. "You didn't hurt me, I'm fine, Bucky." He said that, even though his voice was still hoarse from the near strangulation.

Barnes shook his head in denial, moving backward, toward the front door.

Calling himself all kinds of a fool, Sam planted himself in the archway that separated the front hall from the living room. "Don't do it, man, don't go. The guilt's gonna eat you alive."

"And it won't here?" Barnes retorted quietly. His gaze flickered to Steve and his fist clenched and unclenched in a concession to emotions he was otherwise suppressing.

"Not with friends," Sam answered. "C'mon, sit down. Steve will get you a glass of milk, because you're both hard drinking milk boozers."

Barnes looked at him, blankly, as if Sam's words weren't even English, yet something in his head was turning over, because without another word he went to sit on the couch.

Sam and Steve exchanged a glance, and Steve gave him a silent squeeze of his shoulder in thanks.

Lunch was done and Sam was realizing that he was going to have to get groceries soon, when his two very large guard dogs went to attention at the sound of a car pulling up outside.

Sam looked through the glass panel next to the door to see the taxi. Natasha emerged then with the driver's help, coaxed another guy out of the back seat that Sam presumed was Barton. He was rather normally proportioned, Sam noted with some relief.

"They're here," Sam called over his shoulder. "Natasha, I mean. And her friend."

She looked good, red hair hanging a little limp from traveling, as she paid off the driver and grabbed a single bag in one hand while extending her other around Barton's waist.

He didn't look nearly as good. He was older anyway - okay, the guys in the living room were in the nineties, but they didn't count - Barton had mileage on him, and as he walked with slow step, Sam could see he looked drawn and pale, like he was near the end of his strength. He kept one arm close to his body, making his shirt press against his skin enough for Sam to see the bandages still beneath.

Still, Sam found a smile and opened the door.

"Sam Wilson's home for convalescing wayward superheroes, come in," he greeted with a cheerful smile and stood aside for Natasha and the guy he presumed was Barton.

"Not so much super," Barton muttered. "Clint Barton," he introduced himself. "I'll shake your hand when I don't feel trampled by hippos."

"Sam Wilson. I hear we both have a bird of prey thing going on."

Steve arrived, a tall muscular whirlwind of concern. "Clint! God, man, how you doing?"

"Like I got shot twice, dumped in the Med, stitched up by a drunk, and bullied all over Europe by a redhead," Barton answered, as Steve moved to his other side to sling an arm around his back.

Natasha didn't release him and rolled her eyes at him. "Italy, Serbia, and Croatia are hardly 'all over Europe.'" She explained to Steve and Sam, "They were onto us. We had to steal a car and then get on the train."

"I fucking hate trains." Barton muttered.

Natasha told Steve, "He's cranky because his pain meds wore off halfway across the Atlantic and he refused to take any more. Though I did offer, _twice_. Is there a place he can rest, Sam?"

"Sure, spare room is this way."

They had to pass through the living room, and he'd kind of forgotten that Barnes was there until he heard Barton's stunned whisper, "Holy shit. Is that-?"

Natasha let go of Barton and stood in front of him, all trace of bantering partner gone. She was all lethal intent even in her jeans and tanktop and no weapons, prepared to defend them all, but especially her injured partner. Barnes reacted to her in turn, tensing, and somehow he had one of Sam's steak knives in his hand. They eyed each other like two tigers in a very small cage, and Sam had a flash of his house being utterly demolished by the time the fight was over.

"No, stand down," Steve ordered both, walking between with both hands raised. "Bucky, stop! They're friends. We're all friends."

"What is he doing here?" Natasha asked him, not taking her eyes off Barnes.

"Trying to remember who the fuck he is," Steve snapped. "Something I'd thiink you'd understand."

"I do," she answered. "But I also know exactly how dangerous it is."

Barnes said something short in Russian that Sam didn't understand, but it made her straighten and gasp.

"How did you know to call me that?" she whispered. "That's out … of a dream…"

"It felt … right," he answered. "Familiar."

"Wait," Steve looked from Barnes to Natasha. "You two knew each other before?"

"If you can say two people brainwashed into forgetting, 'knew' each other," she answered absently. Barton put a hand on her shoulder, meaning reassurance, but it reminded her that he was there and he was hurt.

She turned from Barnes, deciding he was not an immediate threat, to put an arm around Barton's waist. "You need to lie flat and I'll check your bandages."

"I'm okay," he objected, but with a sort of desperate stubbornness that no one in the room believed, especially not her.

"In your dictionary 'okay' is only a step above 'bleeding out'. So I'm not buying that one," she retorted.

Sam led them to the spare room, and Natasha shut the door behind her and Barton with a definitive click. He lingered, wanting to offer supplies or something, but he heard their voices inaudibly inside, a soft question from Barton and her softer answer.

He smiled and walked away, glad to leave them to their privacy to talk.

In the living room he found something similar - Barnes was sitting in the recliner, but perched on the edge, hunched over with his hair hanging in his face. Steve was kneeling before him. "You remembered something else. That's good," he was murmuring.

"I think - I think I helped train her," he whispered. "God, there are so many pieces-"

Steve put a hand on his leg. "You're remembering, Bucky. It's -"

He shoved Steve backward. "I don't want to remember!" he stood up, agitated. "I know what I am, I know what they made me. It's all death." He raised both hand before him, clenching both into tight fists, his eyes too bright.

"Bucky-"

"_Stop calling me that_!" he snarled. "I'm not him. I'm never going to be him. Just give up!"

That made Steve give a little pained laugh. "Oh, now I know you've forgotten, because you should know better. I don't give up, and sure as hell, I'm not giving up on you. Never."

A shudder went through Barnes and he launched himself at Steve. Sam was sure for a moment it was to hit him, as Barnes slammed Steve against the wall next to the fireplace hard enough the pictures rattled and his A10 model plummeted off the mantel. Sam winced, hoping the wall stayed intact, but then his eyebrows climbed into his hairline as, instead of trying to strangle Rogers or beat the hell out of him, he planted his mouth on Steve's.

_Oh. Oh, so that's how it was_, Sam thought with a new burst of understanding.

Steve was stunned for a moment, hands hanging at his sides as Barnes' mouth covered his. Barnes' flesh hand clutched the front of Steve's shirt. But Steve's eyes shut and he lifted a hand to the back of Barnes' neck, fingers tangling in his hair, to keep Barnes there to return the kiss.

It looked like something they'd done before, yet when Barnes pulled back and Steve's hand dropped away, Steve's expression was just as gobsmacked as Sam felt his own was, as if he hadn't expected that, at all. Even Barnes didn't appear to know where that had come from, staring at Steve and slowly blinking.

"What-" Steve had to clear his throat. "Bucky?"

Gaze dropping to the floor, Barnes murmured, sounding stunned, "I- I'm sorry."

"No, no, don't be sorry," Steve reassured him. "It's okay. Couldn't you tell it was okay? I - God, I didn't know." He swallowed hard and reached out a trembling hand to tilt Barnes' face back up. "All the things I would've said, wanted to say…"

For the first time, a glimmer of an amused smile broke through the usually impassive Barnes' face. "I wouldn't remember them."

Steve's smile was brilliant, happier that Barnes was joking about something than the actual joke. "Maybe, but I'd have said them. And you would've known."

"I knew," Barnes answered. "The same way I know your face. They never took that."

Just when Sam was about to slink away and escape this horrendously private moment, Steve took pity on him, glancing at him with a brief smile, before turning his attention back to Barnes. "Come on, let's go outside."

"I like the warmth," Barnes said, and it was the first time Sam had heard him express any kind of preference for anything.

Sam knew Steve was thinking about how the file said the Winter Soldier was kept in hibernation when not on mission when Steve's face softened, but then Steve added with a wry grin, "Yeah, I'm not a fan of ice and snow, either."

Steve took Barnes' hand, and Sam was charmed when Barnes glanced his way as if to check that he was okay with this.

Sam grinned. "You're gonna be fine, Barnes. So you two go talk or make out or whatever." They both dropped their eyes in identical expressions of oh-god-please-let-the-floor-swallow-me, which made Sam laugh. "Go. Shoo."

They headed outside to get old people quality time, and Sam decided he deserved a beer, maybe two, for putting up with all this business.

When he turned to head for the kitchen, he found that Natasha was standing in the hall, in front of the closed door to the spare room, and had seen the whole thing.

"So?" he asked her, wondering what she thought of her friend being that close with his old bff, the guy who'd tried to kill them.

"Clint passed out," she said, which was not the answer to what he was asking and yet kind of was. She moved out of the hall and picked up the fallen model plane and put it back in its place. Luckily it had survived the rough landing on the floor with only a bent wing tip. With a deliberate glance at the back door, she said, "When your memories aren't reliable, you want to hold onto what you know is real."

Sam shook his head. Memory manipulation. Every time he thought he knew the depths to which humanity could sink, he heard something new and sickening. "Don't we all want that?"

She nodded once, wry twist to her lips of amused agreement. "Not a lot of real in my business."

"Then you gotta hold on extra tight."

Her gaze flickered back in the direction of the closed door. "Tight as I can," she murmured.

He lifted his brows, more surprised that she was telling him than the truth itself, but nodded his understanding. But since he figured she already regretted saying that much, he yanked open the fridge and changed the subject. "You want a beer? You can tell me all about your adventure rescuing Barton. I gotta live vicariously now."

Natasha accepted the beer and curled up on the couch, smiling at him. "Because your life is so dull?"

"Honestly I thought having assassins and superheroes and reformed villains as house guests would be more exciting," he joked, and her smile widened to something more genuine.

She toasted him with the bottle. "I'm very grateful it's not. Thank you, Sam, for being such a friend."

He leaned near to touch his bottle to hers. "My pleasure."

They drank their beer and Natasha told him the story, while in one room, another new friend recovered from his near-fatal betrayal, while outside two other friends built a fragile bridge to someplace new, bright and hopeful. And he'd helped all of that happen.

All in all, Sam decided he was just fine in the company of these heroes. These friends.

* * *

end.


End file.
